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Mystic/realist
No one lives more in reality than the mystic. Forget asceticism, altered states of consciousness, transfiguration, or idealistic foolishness. The mystic enjoys the everyday world because its marvels fulfill her.
Marvels–the voice of a cashier, the color of brewed tea; a man sleeping in an outdoor alcove of a church, the sheen of a polished wooden chair; the scowl of a woman who looks at you when you board the bus, ice cream and butter at the temperature of their perfect softness. No dark night of the soul, à la St. John of the Cross. No flash-in-the-pan epiphanies.
Experiencing everyday anything as a marvel, the mystic doesn’t linger in an experience in order to prolong its pleasures or discomforts or to agitate, vilify, or congratulate herself. When feeling moves along at its own pace, everyday anything is new, instantly and continuously, and the body and senses freshen themselves. When disappointment, dread, anger, sorrow, anxiety, delusion, projection, envy, stupefaction, cowardice, yearning, or frustration arise, they pass quickly, as does any perception or feeling, because she does not oppose them.
The mystic practices ordinariness–the mind untrammeled, unraveled from discursive embellishments. She lives in a palpable, sensuous world which includes her body. You may call the mystic’s ordinariness extraordinary if not impossible. For her, gliding and loving are synonyms, as are smoothness and peace.
- July 1, 2010
- Filed under: Body and mind, Pleasure
- Comments 1
yes yes yes